An Apple a Day
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: "How is it that you get sick when Mary and I are BOTH out of town?" John asked, over the phone, and Sherlock groaned and grumbled an "I dunno", but the better question was: why was he letting Mycroft take care of him instead? [Holmes brothers bonding sickfic]
1. Chapter 1

**An Apple A Day**

"Can we move this along?" Sherlock asked irritably, pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin.

He would have been perfectly content to stay curled up on the sofa all day, free of John's doctoring for once in his illness count, had it not been for his brother ringing him. His _brother_ , of all people, asking him for his help on some probable mind-numbingly boring case for the government, or something as equally as tedious. But it had been the promise of a case, and since John and Mary were out of town, it was one time that he couldn't be nagged at for working while sick. And so, Sherlock had gone to Mycroft's frankly alarmingly elaborate penthouse.

Now, with the throbbing in his head and the churning in his stomach, he was very much regretting it.

"Seeing as how you've managed to fall ill in the one week that Dr and Mrs Watson are out of town, I'm not sure how to move this along, as you say. The legwork involved wouldn't be kind on your illness."

"It's a small bug that's going around, not the end of the world." Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap, shifting his weight the tiniest amount. "And you could tell that I was sick by talking to me on the phone."

"I wasn't aware of the extent."

"There is no extent," Sherlock said. "But I'll solve the problem for you. You now do not want me to take the case. I do not want to take the case." He prepared to stand, and planned to march out and get his cab home. "So, I'll take my leave instead-" He broke off as he stood, and the vertigo assailed his senses. His fingers landed lightly on the armrest of the chair he'd been sitting in.

... Well, maybe he'd sit just for a moment longer.

His throat was aching on top of all of this, and he sank back into the chair unhappily, resting his arm on his stomach.

"Is tea going to help, or harm?" Mycroft mused, gesturing to the teapot sitting on the small table nearby.

Sherlock wasn't sure himself, but the promise of a warm beverage against his aching throat was too good to pass up. "I'll take some," he replied.

"Where did you catch this 'bug' from this time, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, pouring the tea.

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said, taking the mug and swallowing a large gulp. He wanted to leave it at that, to get up and flounce out of the flat and return to his own, silent flat, but the tea was perfectly brewed and the right temperature for his aching throat. He took another, less hasty, sip and closed his eyes. "The masses of people that swarm the town as they snivel over everything they touch."

"Yes," Mycroft said slowly. "Society."

Sherlock sighed softly, watching as his breath rippled the surface of the tea. "Disgusting."

"Degrading."

He chuckled airily. "Indeed." He sipped at his tea again. "But I got it from somewhere. Perhaps you'll be next." He glanced up at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow.

"Doubtful, little brother," Mycroft replied. "I rarely got ill when you were sick when we were children."

"Mmm. True. Hated that." Sherlock lowered his mug and sank a little lower in the chair. "I should have ignored your call. I was content to stay in bed before you called me here."

"That is something for the record books."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You could stay here," Mycroft commented, after a few minutes of surprisingly companionable silence.

Sherlock was halfway through his tea and nearly choked on the drink he was taking. "What?"

"Your bed is made up. The high-quality sheets and the feather-down duvet must be simply calling your name now."

Knowing that Mycroft was trying to lure him into a yawn with words like 'feather-down' and 'high-quality', Sherlock took another drink of his tea for a distraction. "Regardless of the state of comfort within these walls, why on _earth_ would I want to stay?"

"I have no shortage of tea or medicine. Not to mention the fact that rest is only a few minutes down the hall. I think there even may be some of your clothes in the dresser."

"Hm." He'd stayed here before, on multiple occasions. Mycroft had had this flat since he had turned thirty, and Sherlock's teenage through twenties had been gruelling. He'd ended up here on more than one occasion, and none of them were ever particularly good or willing. Breaking that streak almost seemed taboo.

Mycroft's pleasant smile was unchanging. "Well?"

Time to run the pros and cons, then.

His stomach was protesting. He was beginning to think that the tea had been a bad idea. Given the sudden swell in it and the intensity of it in question, he estimated he had ten minutes before he needed to be somewhere that it could be acceptable to vomit. In ten minutes, he could be out of here and in the cab, but not home yet. Not an acceptable place to throw up (not that he hadn't, but desperate times). At least Mycroft's penthouse had a bathroom or a wastepaper bin.

Pro.

He hadn't stayed with Mycroft for any good reason. And any time that he _had_ stayed here, hadn't been good. No contempt, never contempt. But the look that was always in Mycroft's eyes... made Sherlock's stomach turn. Now, he expected, might not be any different, even if this wasn't illness by his own making.

Con.

But sheets more comfortable than Sherlock was ever going to buy for himself and just the thought of a _bed_ in general sounded so _good_. His head was throbbing, and the pillow sounded like heaven. And since it was not Baker Street, it wasn't quite as busy, so less daytime traffic and noise.

... Pro.

He was wasting valuable time.

"Say that I do stay here," he said slowly. "What will I be expected to owe you?"

"Nothing more than a thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "Now's not really the time for sentimentality. I may be ill, but family bonding? I'd rather bite off my own tongue."

"No, you wouldn't," Mycroft said pleasantly. "You couldn't hear yourself talk, then."

"Bleeding out would be most likely in that scenario."

"However, I'd think taking night-time cold medicine and catching a few hours of sleep probably sounds a lot better to you..." Mycroft trailed off. "Come to think of it, it probably doesn't."

Sherlock sighed, although it was shaky. The nausea was eating away at him, and he would hate to be caught short in the lounge with Mycroft as witness. That being said, locking himself in his bedroom here at the penthouse, the one with the en-suite bathroom, sounded much better.

"Fine," Sherlock relented, slowing pushing himself to his feet. Vertigo again accompanied the movement and, again, the world tilted at the strangest angle. Mycroft's hand hovered a few inches away instinctively, probably, and just as instinctively, Sherlock stepped away. "I am fine," he said brusquely, although still hanging onto the chair.

"You should take better care of yourself, Sherlock."

"I take enough care of myself," Sherlock replied flippantly, treading carefully for the sitting room door. "Funny enough, I've learned that an apple a day does _not_ keep the doctor away. John used to buy them all the time and he stuck around."

"It's not meant to be taken quite so literally, brother."

"Literal or not, everything else is transport. As I've many times told you."

"As you have just as many times been proven wrong. Now, for instance, as you are forced to take some down time to recuperate."

Sherlock waved in dismissal, trudging out of the room. He found his way to his bedroom, closed the door, and walked into the bathroom. It took all of three and a half minutes for the vomiting to start and all of five minutes and eleven seconds for it to stop.

When he stood to wash his hands, he was shaking and exhausted. The idea of leaving the penthouse now seem foreign and forgotten, much less the idea of getting back to Baker Street. Night-time cold medicine and sleep sounded wonderful... although admitting that to Mycroft _would_ be worse than biting his own tongue off.

He quickly found his pyjamas and changed, leaving his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. He pushed the duvet back and crawled between the blankets, sighing softly as the fabric glossed over his skin. He drew the blankets close and tucked his pillow close, letting the soft plush draw him increasingly closer to something that was the semblance of relaxation.

Until Mycroft's voice filtered through the bedroom door. "Medication and hydration, Sherlock."

" _Sleep_ ," Sherlock retaliated, drawing the blankets close.

"In a moment," Mycroft said, louder now, as he entered the room. "But, first, paracetamol, at the very least. There's more tea if you want, too."

Despite how Sherlock didn't want anything else from his brother, he had to admit that the promise of... he sniffed slightly, was it Earl Grey or Darjeeling? He couldn't tell. Hot tea definitely sounded better than the lingering taste of vomit on his tongue, though.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded, for the second time, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Give me."

Mycroft handed them over and Sherlock placed the pills on his tongue, holding out his hand for the mug of tea. "Now, go away."

"As you wish, brother."

Sherlock took a drink of his tea to chase down the medication as Mycroft left the room. It was Darjeeling. Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips and huddled down in the blankets, yawning slightly. It was warm tucked away in his bed sheets, far more quiet than Baker Street could ever be, and the familiar taste of tea on his tastebuds was lulling him into a false sense of security. He took another drink of his tea, closing his eyes. He shoved the pillow back and settled against it comfortably, a larger yawn breaking the restraints of his lips.

Medication and sleep, he had told Mycroft. With the addition of tea overlaying the medication, falling asleep was the only thing left to do.

* * *

 **A/N: Wow I started this story a _long_ time ago, but with Series 3 and TAB further exemplifying the bond between the Holmes Brothers, I was able to get some inspiration for it! So I edited and here we go! Sickfic + Holmes Brothers. Probably gonna be 4 or 5 chapters, nothing too long. I love their brotherhood, sure, but they are hard to write getting along. x'D.**

 **I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank for reading, and stay tuned!**


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, what Sherlock had stubbornly told himself _was_ a cold, seemed to be something worse. And by something worse, he guessed that it was flu. _Stomach_ flu, which was the reason he was again knelt over the toilet, hands braced against the cold porcelain, struggling to catch his breath and quell the nausea.

It had gone past sundown by the time he'd arrived to Mycroft's apartment, and a tilt of his arm to check the time now showed that it was just past midnight. No wonder he felt so tired.

A knock on the door would have startled him, but seeing as how one did not announce the man that rounded into the en suite, Sherlock flinching hard enough to unsettle his stomach again wasn't unexpected. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and glared up at Mycroft, pulling himself into a slightly more dignified position. "Haven't you heard of _knocking_?"

"Why?" Mycroft asked. "I have seen it all before. In worse circumstances, usually."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, falling onto his backside to slump against the cabinets. "And still similar symptoms. Drenched in sweat and draped over the toilet." He rubbed at his mouth vigorously, hiding the wry smile, and thumped his head back against the cabinet. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"Can't I come check on my sick little brother?"

Sherlock scoffed. "It's past midnight and you haven't changed for bed."

"Sick, yet as perceptive as ever." Mycroft stepped into the bathroom. "I was working, if you must know. I heard you vomiting down the hall." The tap ran for a moment and he held a cup of water down to him.

Sherlock sighed slightly, but took it with still trembling fingers. "Sorry that I can't heave more quietly." He swallowed a few more mouthfuls, scraping his tongue against his teeth. "I need a toothbrush."

"I'll have someone fetch one."

"Right. As if you'd have extra ones here." Sherlock pushed himself, wobbling, to his feet. "No one ever stays _here_ overnight."

"By that respect, you'd have no reason to have extras, either."

"Mm." Sherlock swallowed another gulp of water. "Not true. John has a spare, so does Mary. And I keep others in case the Janine situation happens again."

Mycroft sighed. "Of course you would keep toothbrushes for your fake girlfriends, boyfriends, and one night stands."

"Of course. It's personal hygiene." He wrinkled his nose. "I _definitely_ wouldn't want to kiss them if they didn't brush their teeth."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Of course not. How could I think otherwise?"

"I don't know." Sherlock set the cup down and washed his hands painstakingly, drying them on his pyjamas. "I'm going back to bed."

"I should think so," Mycroft replied. "I'll have some of your things brought over from Baker Street."

"Who said I was staying?" Sherlock muttered, although he knew it was true; he wouldn't go anywhere if he ran the risk of making a fool of himself. The stomach flu needed to edge off, just a little, before he could trust his stomach enough to put himself into a cab. Unless Mycroft offered a car. Which he wasn't.

"Maybe a day or two away from the toxic waste dump will help to improve your state of health."

"My flat is clean," Sherlock retorted. "Mrs Hudson cleans it."

"Right. Well. You got sick from somewhere."

Sherlock tottered his way back to the bed, somewhat irked by his brother dogging his every step. And yet he said nothing about it, irritation only outwon by the urge to get back into the warm bed that was waiting for him.

He did speak, however, once he had collapsed back into the bed in question. "Are you gonna stay there all night?" he intoned, voice muffled into the pillow he had dropped his face into.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock groaned softly, turning his head. "I _said_ , are you going to stand there all night or did you want to get under the covers as well?" he asked sarcastically.

"Doubtful, little brother." Mycroft stepped away. "I'll bring up some tea."

"You know, I keep forgetting you actually know how to _make_ tea," Sherlock muttered, tugging on the blankets. They seemed to be caught beneath his feet, tangled amongst his wobbly legs.

"Yes, well, I don't have a housekeeper like some people."

"She's not my housekeeper." What was really going on with these blankets? He was two seconds away from giving up here and letting the sweat just freeze to his exposed skin in the seemingly cold room.

"Says the man who can't cover himself up with a blanket." There was a sharp jerk and the feel of the blanket finally being untrapped as Mycroft pulled it away. The pull almost sent Sherlock rolling, and he grumbled at his brother even as Mycroft tucked the blanket around his shoulders.

"Careful," he griped, fingers reaching up to replace Mycroft's on the blanket. He pulled it closer around his neck, and pressed his face into the pillow to let out a shallow breath.

"Do try to be careful, Sherlock."

"Silence, Mycroft, I need silence. I'm trying to sleep. I'm sick, remember?"

"Yes... I'll get that tea." Footsteps moved away from the bed. The door opened and closed.

Sherlock finally relaxed into the blankets, and maybe groaned a tiny bit. He was miserable. If this really was some type of flu, he could sick from anywhere between twenty-four to one-twenty-hours, ranging from a one day to potential five day flu, and he _couldn't_ stay here for _five_ days...

He was dying, wasn't he? It was that simple. This was punishment for all of his sins. Being sick, clearly dying, under the eye of his brother.

... Well, maybe not, but with the way his stomach ached and his head throbbed...

Sherlock groaned again and wrapped his arms around his pillow, pulling it up close to his body.

* * *

 _"How is it that you get sick when Mary and I are_ both _out of town?"_

Sherlock crashed into bed, breathing heavily through his nose. "Dunno. Good timing?" After his midnight excursion, he had slept the rest of the night. Only to have illness kick back in the moment he was awake, vomiting coupled with stomach cramps that were just bordering on this side of 'severe'.

He'd just come back from the bathroom when he noticed the notification on his phone, and he'd clumsily pressed redial for John to answer with a question instead of his usual, customary greeting.

 _"Sherlock,"_ John chastised.

"Fine, bad timing." Sherlock rolled over onto the blankets, slinging his free arm over his stomach. "How'd you know I was sick, anyway?"

 _"Mycroft rang me."_

"Of course he did." He blew out a breath through his teeth and huddled down further. He hadn't been able to get back to sleep and worse still, the medication he'd taken wasn't staying down. Brother in question hadn't been in much, though, so that was a plus.

 _"So, the stomach flu?"_

"I guess so." Sherlock swallowed. "Vomiting, cramps. All of that."

 _"Well, you've been there before. Are you drinking enough?"_

"There's tea."

 _"Have some plain water too,"_ John said. _"Medicine?"_

"I'm sure I've thrown it all back up." Sherlock stretched out and then curled up around the blankets again.

 _"Don't double up. And try to keep it down if you can."_

"Great advice," Sherlock hissed. "God, this is miserable."

 _"Sorry we're not there."_

Sherlock laughed humorlessly. "I figured you wouldn't be able to... _nag_ me," he said, rolling over, "since you weren't here."

 _"Great to be appreciated."_

If smiling didn't take so much energy, he might have just then. "You know what I mean... gotta sleep, John," he continued, knowing it would get him off the phone even if he wasn't sure he'd sleep.

 _"Right. Get your sleep. Call me if you need anything, alright?"_

Any potential sarcasm was lost beneath the pain. "Uh huh." He tossed his phone onto the mattress once they'd disconnected, and kicked the bundled up blankets away from his feet. He was cold and hot at once, sweaty and shivering and he _hated_ it, hated it. It was the same old symptoms, every time he got sick, be it flu or food poisoning, and there was nothing to make it better except let it run its course.

John was lucky, though, that Sherlock had held it together enough on the phone so that he hadn't just incoherently babbled into his ear. (He'd done that before on a high fever... and sleep deprivation.)

"Well done."

Sherlock winced, groaning again when the flinch sent pain radiating throughout his body. "Go _away_."

"Just checking in."

"Check-in somewhere else- ow. Oh, God." With the arm that he'd been holding the phone to his ear with now free, he wrapped both arms around his stomach, jambing his kneecaps up.

"Hot water bottle?"

Sherlock hated how good the idea sounded. But he couldn't help but nod, ducking his head into the pillow and regulating his breathing through his nose. Which he kept doing - in, out, in, out, through the shuddering and the reflexive swallowing - until Mycroft walked back into the room.

He squinted his eyes open, looking at the water bottle Mycroft was offering. He slowly unwound his arm from his stomach and swiped it from his brother, shoving it against his stomach. "Thank you, now go-"

Sherlock crashed to a halt as Mycroft put his hand on his forehead.

Suddenly he was seven years old, sick with an ailment that had taken him out of school, and his mum was sitting on the bed next to him, her hand on his forehead to check for the fever.

His eyelids fluttered, lashes brushing against his cheeks as the warmth from the water bottle and Mycroft's hand sank into his skin. "... That's not accurate," he mumbled, and didn't reopen his eyes.

"True," Mycroft allowed, pulling away. "You have a thirty-seven point five, if I'm not mistaken."

"... You're not mistaken." He squirmed slightly. "'s just a low-grade," he muttered.

"Yet you're still miserable. Sleep, Sherlock."

He pushed himself further under the blankets, into the wrinkling sheets and the crumpled up pillow and splayed his fingers against the bottle and tangled his free hand into his shirt. "Don't tell me what to do," he muttered.

Mycroft might have laughed. Only just. (But maybe Sherlock was sicker than they thought.) "Of course not, little brother. I wouldn't even try."

* * *

 **A/N: These Holmes brothers are literally the best. I literally need more Holmes brother in Series 4. And we still need sick!lock in Series 4. Or detox!lock. Or, well, you know. xD Someone (Mycroft or John or Mary) taking care of this detective.**

 **Stay tuned for upcoming chapters!**


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